The Making of a Shade
by Tenaebryn
Summary: This is an exploration of Durza's posession.


_This is a piece inspired by Durza's memories in the book Eragon. I found the background of Durza's posession fascinating, so here I flesh out his story a little more. WARNING This story is rather gory._

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**The Making of a Shade **

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There was no time to think. He heard the master's screams and knew the raiders were upon them.

He heard coarse laughter and the splintering of wood as the savages layed about them with their weapons.

They were in the house they would find him in seconds and everything would be lost. He had no protection, and the master was dead, no one to repay the men for what they would do. The only power he had was his magic. He didn't have time to think or consider the consequences.

He desperately barricaded the door against their crashing and huddled back into the shadows, whispering the chant furiously.

He watched with wide, scared eyes the crack of light at the door fracture as figures moved toward him, praying that no one would hear him, desperately trying to concentrate, shuddering at each fall of the axe. What should he summon, there was no time; a man appeared through the doorway and his voice tapered to a frantic scream as the barbarian came bursting through and charged toward him.

Instantly the ground in front of him erupted into a pillar of howling shadow.

Faces boiled in the pillar and he had one glimpse of inhuman eyes before the pillar fractured into a thousand streams that surged around the room, slaughtering the man in the door and flooding out across the desert sands.

A torrent of passing shadow veered out of the pillar and struck his body.

Instantly his world was chaos as screams and howls of a thousand voices overrode his senses. He had one terrified glimpse of the soldier's panicked face, and then the world was all inhuman screaming and darkness.

_He had not had time to scrawl a containment circle._

The demons hearkened to his fevered will and slaughtered the men in one torrential flow, but then came swarming back upon their puny summoner with taunting inclination. They derived great pleasure in the chance to penalize this insignificant, proud human who thought to control _them_.

The troopers lay in sprawled bloody masses with the harsh desert sun filtering down upon them through the wreckage of the shack. The only signs of life were the shadows that slid fluidly and stealthily like snakes along the walls where no being stood to cast them.

…

He kneeled, arch backed and still in the now deadly silence of the room.

Within his mind a desperate battle raged, one against thousands. He had been taught to resist demon possession by strength of mind, but the one rule of summoning was not to raise a spirit stronger than thyself; beyond that: no hope.

Even so, he held out desperately, grasping for control of his body amidst the roiling mob of voices that were now the occupants of his mind. Every time he would gain some force over one spirit, the mass would change, roiling about his weakening consciousness. And he was tired. So tired after the summoning. He was slipping and the Demons howled all the louder like a pack of jackals that sense the hunt is coming to an end.

Suddenly his mind slipped, and he lost his hold on one hand causing it to twitch insanely as forces battled within it. He tried to gain it back, the will sapping his strength, but instantly the demons were grasping more and more.

The body went into an epileptic fit as he was hounded around within it, desperately trying to control his own limbs as the many wills of the demons vied for control. His eyes rolled, and as he lost control of her tongue, a thousand voices spewed out onto the dead air of the shack, roiling out upon the faceless desert.

Now the demons pursued him; he desperately trying to grasp some place where he could find solace, control, and they chasing him round the hollows of his consciousness, no hiding place left to block them out.

The convulsing grew less and less. The demons gained more and more.

Until, finally, the body lay still.

He sat curled in a weeping ball within his own mind. The demons murmured and shifted in a sea around him.

The body began to move.

He sat up. His eyes rolled slowly back to their positions as the formless, century-lost demons acquainted themselves with the handling of the body. They stood, moving jerkily as they all attempted to control different parts of the body at once. His senses flared in new possibilities before them and they relished the scent that rolled over them now.

_What was it? Ahhhh…__**Yes. Blood.**_

The sense that had filled their entire lusting, craving, existence on the Othereside:

_**Deeeeeeath.**_

Excitement rose within them, and some demons in the horde of a more cruel, brutish nature pushed the body forward through the naked, jagged hole of the door, out into where light fell in upon a scene of carnage.

Blood filled their senses as their eyes landed upon the bodies of the raiders. The bloodlust sent the brute ones into a frenzy and they fell upon the bodies, tearing with teeth as if the body were a ravening wolf.

The last shreds of his will rebelled against this and fought again weakly, but he could not shut it out, he could not even close his eyes to deny the carnage that invaded his senses. Their teeth cracked and splintered with the unaccustomed force with which the demons compelled the jaw to rend flesh.

The body lifted its head, glistening gore dripping from its jaws, and spit out the teeth.

This will not do.

The bestial demons had had their pleasure with the body, now it was time for more… ambitious means.

The mind indifferently catalogued their surroundings and contemplated what now to embark upon with the body's inviting talents. Inanely, while the eyes wandered, a more sadistic group of urges gouged with red stained hands into the carcasses and absently began drawing motley symbols upon the crevices of the body.

The mind paid these ones no heed, but stood, now bedecked in grisly war paint, and entered into the broken house.

_**Ahhhhhh. There**_

True to the body's memories, there was the book of the shaman. If the demons were to truly have fun with this new shell they must invest it with more power, the better to build their long existence on this mortal coil.

Their cold, insatiable lust told them that soon the world of Life would shake for fear of _Their_ power.


End file.
